My harvest withers. Health, my means to live –
All things seem rushing straight into the dark.
But the dark still is God. I would not give
The smallest silver-piece to turn the rush
Backward or sideways. Am I not a spark
Of him who is the light? Fair hope doth flush
My east. – Divine success – Oh, hush and hark!
George MacDonald
A Diary of an Old Soul
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